


A Box of Him

by jollllly



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: (but like he's not actually dead), Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Makeshift funeral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:27:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22344826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jollllly/pseuds/jollllly
Summary: Owen isn't given much of a funeral, so Curt holds his own in memory of his deceased partner.
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 19
Kudos: 58





	A Box of Him

**Author's Note:**

> check out the accompanying art piece here: https://lovelylynart.tumblr.com/post/190378977765/this-is-a-companion-piece-to-a-box-of-him-on-ao3
> 
> warning: death (Owen's (the first time)), funerals, smoking addiction mention, alcohol mention, alcoholism implied briefly

Owen wasn’t given a real funeral. Not really. His body was never recovered, and there were only so many people in the world who knew his occupation outside of the agency, so it wasn’t like there were many people who would’ve gone who knew him, _really_ knew him.

So Curt held his own funeral for Owen. A small one. Just him. He didn’t have any of Owen’s remains. No body, no ashes. None of him. But he had some things. A few articles of Owen’s he had accumulated through the years, a few things that just felt like Owen, even if they had belonged to Curt.

A few letters, strictly professional of course, but reminders of him. Curt also had a Zippo. Not for his own use. Just for Owen. The man hadn’t been prone to losing his belongings, but Owen found himself more than a few times having to ask Curt for a light. It seems addictions pay no mind to the spy lifestyle. The minimalistic living conditions. The “you have twenty minutes to pack a bag before getting on a flight to God-knows-where” commotion. So sometimes things would be left behind. Funny, Owen’d always seemed to remember a pack of cigarettes. Curt couldn’t recall a single time he had forgotten them, compared to his lighter. He could think of countless times the other man had patted his pockets and came up empty, prompting Curt to flick open his Zippo, leaning into Owen’s space, Owen leaning into his space, meeting in the middle, perhaps much closer than necessary to get the job done. And their eyes would meet. And Owen would smirk… That sly bastard.

It wasn’t a real funeral, and it wasn’t a real burial. But Curt found an old cigar box somewhere in his apartment and filled it with his memories of Owen. A couple letters; the Zippo; an old, broken watch, a gift from Owen that he had never gotten rid of after it was damaged; a few knick-knacks that would be considered worthless if it weren't for the memories attached to them.

And there was also a photograph. A photograph Curt had taken of Owen a year or so prior. A stranger may look at it without a second glance. It wasn’t anything special, just a somewhat-blurry image of a young man lounged in a chair, looking at something out of frame. It could be deemed unremarkable, really. But not to Curt. To Curt it was what he had longed to come home to every day, the vision he longed to take in. Owen, at rest, gazing out into the world around them, happy. It was a reminder of why he always got back up after being knocked down. A reminder of why he continued fighting. A reminder of the life they had wished they could have lived… together.

He gave a wordless eulogy. There wasn’t much he could say. There wasn’t much he could admit out loud, even with no one around to hear it. So he cried. He cried for his partner. Cried because it was his fault. Cried because he couldn’t save him. Cried for the agent that had been lost. He cried for his lover. Cried for the moments they would never again share. Cried because of the cruel, unaccepting world they resided in. Cried because he had to go on without him. Cried for the unconfessed declarations. Cried for the love abruptly taken from him.

Curt contemplated what to do with his box of Owen. He could bury it, but he tried to be realistic. He knew he wouldn’t last long before digging it back out again to take another glance at the photo or another look at the letters, at the handwriting. Owen’s handwriting. The looping letters melding together to create, at first glance, sophisticated and neat lines full of, at second glance, what could be read as nonsense and gibberish if one hadn’t previously been exposed to Owen’s script.

Curt ran his fingers over his name, scrawled on the top left of the page. As much as he had teased the other man for making it look absolutely illegible, he knew he would miss seeing it. He knew he couldn’t bury it.

In the end, he stuffed the box into the drawer of his bedside table. Close enough to relive his memories, but hidden enough that he wouldn’t be overwhelmed with sorrow anytime his gaze swept across the room.

He didn’t pull it out often. He tried not to, at least. He knew it would only make it harder to be constantly reminded of his guilt and grief.

Years passed as Curt worked through the loss of Owen. Most of that time consisted of him getting piss-drunk and crying alone in his apartment, angry with himself and the world around him. It was one of those days when Curt realized it wasn’t working. Realized something needed to change.

Once again, he opened the drawer and delicately held the old cigar box in his hands. He sunk to the floor before opening the lid, once again overwhelmed with memories of his partner. Tears fell as he gently sifted through the contents, taking time with each item, recalling the memories they held. He kissed each piece and tenderly placed them on the floor next to him as he moved through the contents of Owen’s box.

When he finished, Curt took a moment to stare into the empty space that had held Owen’s belongings for so long. His gaze shifted to the floor beside him, the memories surrounding him, keeping him safe, reminding him of home. His home. With Owen.

Curt took a deep breath. He knew what needed to be done. He knew he had to make things right. He had to keep going. He had to make Owen proud.

He had to be a spy again.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ billtedrights


End file.
